**It’s gone.** All that remains are ashes—charred ruins of a life once lived, now lost to the wind. Did it ever exist? There was a house here once, I think. Nestled in the heart of a pine and cedar forest, its pink wooden walls stood proud just yesterday. Now, they crumble in on themselves, blackened and weeping, reduced to fragile embers. The windows are gone too—likely shattered from the heat and force of the disaster. Three years of my life went into building this place. I designed every inch of it, from the layout of the floors to the smallest detail of the appliances. I painted the walls, wired the electricity, poured my heart into making it ours. I still hear Maybel’s laughter from the day she first saw it, my sweet, innocent girl. “I’ve never seen a pink house before!” she had giggled, wide-eyed. “It’s like a castle!” “Then let’s call it The Pink Palace,” I had said, smiling. Now, all that remains are shards of glass, scorched earth, and broken dolls that crunch beneath my boots. A small hand squeezes mine. Maybel. Her wide, tear-filled eyes scan the ruins, struggling to comprehend the loss. She doesn’t understand, not fully. My heart aches for her as we carefully pick our way through the wreckage. Birds chirp in the distance, blissfully unaware of my turmoil. I kneel, brushing away soot from a small mass of fur. A stuffed bear stares back at me, its once-brown coat streaked with ash, tiny tears running along its arms. The stitched-on smile seems fainter, its hollow eyes distant. How did it survive when everything else was destroyed? I tuck it into my bag. We can’t stay here. Not with the volcano rumbling in the distance, threatening to bury what little remains. And not when I have no means of rebuilding—not since my husband passed, leaving me to care for Maybel alone. So we’ll go. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll fly out to America. It was only a matter of time anyway—we already had a suitcase packed. My mother lives in Kansas, on a few acres of land, and for now, that’s the only home I can give my daughter. I take one last look at what’s left of our Pink Palace, brushing my fingers over the burned remains of our memories. Then, lifting Maybel into my arms, I hold her close. Her warmth is the only thing anchoring me now. We give the house a final, tearful goodbye. And then we walk away, leaving the forest to its quiet, untouched existence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _A Week Later_ It’s been a week since we arrived at my mother’s house. From the moment we stepped through the door, she fussed over us endlessly, insisting she didn’t have enough to make us comfortable. Then she dragged us out shopping. “Pick anything you want,” she said, waving away my protests. “I’m your mother. What I say goes. And besides, I’m not spending all this money by myself!” Believe it or not, my mom is an independent financial advisor. She joined a big name firm early on, built up her reputation over the years, earning loyal clients and a six-figure income—all while working from home. At the store, I picked up the essentials: clothes, toiletries, easy meals. Maybel, meanwhile, wandered to the toy aisle, hesitantly reaching for a Barbie doll. Mom took one look and started piling things into the cart—puzzles, jewelry kits, paints. “Go on, sweetheart,” she told Maybel. “Pick whatever you want.” Maybel hesitated. Then she spotted it. A giant electric pony—pink, with handles. One of those ride-on toys. She tugged at Mom’s sweater, pointing at it, eyes full of wonder. Mom snorted. “Oh, child, just you wait. We have real ones at Grandma’s house.” She grinned. “Just you wait.” Since then, Maybel has visited the stables every morning, learning the horses’ names, helping Mom feed them. She’s started smiling more, her laughter echoing across the fields as she chases some poor chicken she’s decided is her new best friend. I sip my coffee, watching from the porch as she races across the yard. The warm summer morning hums around us—the rooster’s call breaking the dawn, the soft nickers of hungry horses greeting the rising sun. For the first time in days, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Maybe—just maybe—we can start over here.